And the happy brook murmured, “Glory, glory, glory! the glory of God.”
“Now we will see what this bit of paper has for us,” said the wind as he picked up the paper at the foot of the elm.
“Ah! What have we here? Evolution! Just what we want: ‘evolution, the act of unfolding or unrolling.’”
He stopped with a thoughtful look.
“Yes, I see. As the young leaves
and flowers unfold. The
plants must take full
charge of this department,
I think. I remember once
turning over the leaves of
a fat, dark-gray book, with
gilt letters on its back.
It lay on a minister’s
window-seat, and it looked
interesting, so I read a
few minutes while the
minister was out and not
using it, and among other things that
I read was this, and it stayed with
me ever since: ‘A lily grows mysteriously.
Shaped into beauty by secret
and invisible fingers, the flower
develops, we know not how. Every
day the thing is done: it is God.’
You see, my dear,” addressing himself
to a pure white lily that had
only that morning unfolded its delicate
petals to the sun, “you see a
great many don’t understand how it
is done. You need to tell how God
has made you able to unfold.”
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“Yes, we will, we can,” they all cried.
“The flowers will speak on Evolution,” wrote down Woodpecker.
“There are three more words spoken by our friend Fish, still unexplained,—literature,—”